


I need something to kill me (I am tired of taking my own life)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dirty Thoughts, Dysfunctional Relationships, Everybody Lives, I debated for a month if i should post this or not bUT YOLO, I was gonna write a whole second part of this but I lost steam, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Neo World Program (Dangan Ronpa), Nwp au, Originally written April 12th, Post-Neo World Program (Dangan Ronpa), Self-Destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Thoughts, Virtual Reality, dont let that tag fool ya we full of trauma tonight, hhh its been five seconds and im already reGRET, i want to die., vent - Freeform, vent fic, wow! All three of them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 21:51:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: He hardly ever said please, but for him, for this moment, he would chant it out like a prayer, giving thanks to the gods he didn't believe in.(Or: Kokichi ouma wanted to beclose.)





	I need something to kill me (I am tired of taking my own life)

**Author's Note:**

> I want to die

“It hurts, it hurts, _it hurts…_ ” saiharas movements slowed, at his sobbing,barely understandable, and he let out a pained whine in response, “do you want me to stop..?”

So concerned, so gentle. If he was in a different state of mind, he'd marvel at how he could treat someone like him with such care. But instead, Kokichi just wrapped his weak arms around him, trying to bring him closer, a pathetic, _desperate_ sound trapped in his throat, as he all but pleaded, “ _no_..”

He swallowed, his voice cracked and drying, “don't stop. _please_.”

He hardly ever said please, but for him, for this moment, he would chant it out like a prayer, giving thanks to the gods he didn't believe in.

He was sure saihara was looking at him funny, but he resumed, as kokichis nails dug into his back, trying to draw him closer and closer. Kokichi wanted him _closer_ , wanted him to be so close that their flesh would give way, that everything in this earth would disappear expect for them. Nothing else, just them, just this moment. He wanted all of saihara, wanted his harsh words along with caring ones, wanted his nails and blood and _whatever_ he could give him, wanted him to bite into kokichi and expose him, raw, _raw_ , press his tongue against the indents of his teeth, to taste his blood. _Close_. _Closer_.

As if their soul could bleed into one, the broken parts of each other- of _him_ , disgusting, deceitful _him_ , mending each other—as if he would deserve to become a part of something as beautiful as saihara, if only he bleed enough.

If only saihara was _close_ enough.

He wanted him to rip apart his skin, to grasp onto his rib cage, the bones slimy in his hands, slick with his blood, and _pull_. Until his body gave way with a sickening crack, his ribs caving in until he could reach where this love nestled, where his heart beat- and oh, how he'd rip that out, the pulsating, pumping thing, and offer it with a smile if he so desired. Anything. _Everything_.

If only so that he'd get _closer, closer, please---_

His skin, pressed up against his, his saliva as he sucked open wounds on his neck, his nails, digging, _digging_ , until Kokichi bled and bled and bled and, _god_.

He wanted to beg him with everything he had, just please, _please, make him **bleed**._

Saihara, _saihara_ , it was him, him, him. He wanted _everything_ from him, his good, his bad, it _all_. It was repulsive how desperate, how deprived he was. But from saiharas lips he was sure he'd preen at being called such a thing, the sting in his heart proving he was _alive_. He loved it, he loved it, how much it hurt, this thing. This emotion of his that he deemed fit to call love, as if he was worthy of such a thing, as if it wasn't wreaking of violent urgency, tearing at his insides, until he just wanted to be _destroyed_ by him, him, him.

It was always _him_.

But Kokichi didn't know how to communicate that, to say so much in just a few breaths, because even _breathing_ felt hard to do, but it was so _right_ , his pure breathlessness, because it was _saihara_ that was causing it. He never wanted it to end, never, never.

Besides, actions spoke louder (loud, loud, _**loud**_ , like the thoughts in his head that just won't _quit it)_ so he didn't say anything at all, only pulling him close, close, _closer_ , as close at they could be, until he was almost falling on him, before his hands found his. And he grasped it, pulling, pulling, pulling it up, closer, closer, _so close_ , to his throat, wrapping them around it firmly.

“What…?” And saihara, he sounded so unsure, so confused, it made Kokichi want to curl up away, away, _far away._

Was that fear? Was that disgust?

 _Come back.._ it was on the tip of his tongue, soaked in fear and hesitance and _longing_ , but he choked it down, stuffed it into his chest, his heart, and locked it up like he always, always did. Smile, laugh- just play it off as a joke, a _lie_. Because everything in him was a _fucking lie_ , wasn't it, even if he could trick himself for a short while and pretend that it wasn't- that there was love and goodness as twisted and perverted it may be, in his heart, as if there was anything that pure. He was disgusting, but he wore a smile all the same.

Wobbling, sickly, almost, sweat and tears and blush all covering his cheeks, heat-- unconvincing. And saihara, saihara did what no one else in his life ever has, what he thought no one ever would.

He came back.

_(You'll always be alone, Kokichi.)_

And oh, that stung more than any other, how he'd apologize and sympathize with him, rationalizing what he said as heat of the moment expressions, he shouldn't have said it, he was just upset. But Kokichi knew that the most honest things were often said then, when one would lose themselves in the moment, in their emotions, and just shouted out how they felt. He didn't want saiharas token apologies, didn't need what he said out of obligation. He wanted saihara, saihara, true to himself. He wanted him to say what he thought to him, instead all of these gold plated _lies_. They only taste like ash to him, pushing him further and further. And he wanted— _needed_ —to be closer. Please, just let him be _closer_.

He didn't need his words of love, or apologies, he didn't need any of it. Any of those lies. He just needed saihara, to be close to him, close. And how could they be close if saihara kept up such a facade? He wanted the good, the bad, it _all_. Wanted him to make him bleed but if seemed saihara was always telling him his nails were to dull, when he's seen them spread across his cheeks and mark them. It was as if he was lying to himself, afraid of himself.

He wanted him to tell him everything. The dark thoughts he kept inside, every reach of his mind– as if it was a cavern for him to explore. The lonely, pathetic hypocrite of a traveler, who's lost his way in his eyes. Piercing eyes, that sometimes looked like they could rip you to shreds, when he was focused, when he was trying to find a culprit; when he allowed his vindictiveness to spread its icy tendrils and wrap the courtroom in silence, before the reality comes crashing down, knocking cold, unfeeling evidence out of his hands. And that calm, penetrating freeze is as fast gone as it was there, again.

He shivered, remembering the trial where his cooled anger wasn't directed at the culprit, poor, misguided gonta, and instead at himself. It was disgusting, veil of him, really, to want him to look at him like that again. Like he was just scum beneath his feet, something unpleasant he stepped into. Like he wasn't even worth ripping apart.

His words, chilling, they still haunt him to this day. He doesn't know if they scare him, as he wakes up in cold sweats and shivers, or excite him. Because, if it was saihara who was giving it to him, even _hurt_ made his stomach flip.

Wretched, that's what he was. Depravity sinking into his bones, permeating it. His decaying mind latching onto this feeling in him, this _desire_.

Close, close, _close_. He wanted (needed needed _needed)_ to be close to saihara, _all of him_. Wanted to hear his grips and insults towards him, that he was sure he kept in his head, locked away from all to see. He wanted to hear it all, every little thing. Whether it be what he loved about him (nothing, for sure) or what he hated about him (and that list could go on for days and days, couldn't it?) everything, everything. Every insult he ever hurled his way, in his head. He wanted to hear it. Close.

And oh, wasn't that just so fucked up? How badly he wanted to bleed- his heart, his feelings, his body? It all, it all belonged to saihara, everything. He wanted him to make use of it, of him, in some way, in some way. He fantasizes what his fist would feel like against his cheek. Craack. Craaack. What would it feel like when his bone gave? Agony, probably.

He wanted it.

He wanted it. He wanted saihara to hurt him, to desecrate him, to destroy him so thoroughly that he wouldn't be able to recognize himself in the mirror. Because bitemarks and bruises looked better on him than his own, pathetic face staring back at him every morning. Suffocate him, suffocate this useless, useless life out of his purple eyes, bringing him just to the edge of death (and old friend; he'd greet it with a smile) before allowing him air, before allowing his burning lungs to inflate. After all, what brings people closer than danger?

Than death, knocking on their window pane as if it was just an uninvited house guest?

(Amami, Kaede, Hoshi, Kirumi, Angie, Tenko, Korekiyo, Miu, Gonta, Kaito, _Himself--)_

(A cold, hard press. Nothing personal about it. Emotionless, sterile. Like the life he was brought into, like the clean white walls of the hospital walls he woke up to, just like the ones he was birthed. The kind that hurt your eyes when you looked at it too long, beige upon beige upon beige. He could be anyone, with this lack of feeling.)

(At least it was painful. At least he got what he deserves.)

And oh, how he was so selfish. He wanted to know it all, everything, wanted to be close, close, close, all while wanting to say nothing in return. He wanted to know his darkness, his truths, all while keeping his locked away. He wished saihara had the foresight to rip his tongue out of his mouth, so he couldn't spill out toxic _bullshit_ , lies, lies, **_lies_** , and leave everyone else to deal with the mess on the floor. To stitch up his mouth one painful, painful tug at a time.

Or, maybe, maybe- maybe he still wanted to run away, because without a tongue, he wouldn't be able to answer his questions, now would he? What a disgusting, repulsive wreck he was.

This acute need, desire, want in him, it was revolting. He was afraid of it, afraid of telling saihara his own thoughts. Would he think it a joke? A lie? Would he look upon Kokichi in object horror, _worry_ creasing into his face like _wrongness?_

He wouldn't blame him. Wouldn't blame his disgust—he was disgusted to, revolted that the foul idea of saihara looking at him revolted (like _the goddamn piece of trash he is-)_  sent tingles up his spine—or his fear. His fear was probably founded, after all. Kokichi was even scared of himself, sometimes. But worry, worry felt like lava down his throats, her smirking eyes above him as he squirmed ( _shirogane_ , her glasses gleaming, showing her blood soaked hand as she moved her chess piece with faux calm) and squirmed and a part of him _died, died, died_. Because how could he say _stop, no_ , without any air in his lungs?

(Why did he crave to be breathless, despite it all, helpless to the whims of his love? Only saihara, it was only with saihara he felt this way. That if he killed him, he'd be happy to go that way.)

He wanted saihara to know, really, to know him. To be close. But there's always the fear in him, making him choke on his own breath. His hands were wrong, dirty with the blood of innocence (gonta gonta _gonta)_ and purity, when they wrapped around his own neck, trying to pretend they were his, late at night. _(Please. Destroy him. He deserves it.)_

_(He **wants** it.)_

But how could the truth fall from _his_ lips? It was acid on his skin, in his throat. The truth and him had always had fickle relationships, after all (lies, even more so, falling from his tongue like bitter charcoal) so how could he?

Like fucking always, he lied.

(Repulsive.)

(Kokichi ouma _**hated**_ liars.)

“Are you ok?”

Oh, and saihara, gentle and caring and kind (he didn't deserve him) noticed.

“I'm fine. I'm very happy, saihara-chan!”

A lump in his throat like a rock, heavy and burdening. He licks his lips. “Really.”

Saiharas hands move to brush kokichis hair aside, and his breath catches. Saiharas hands are so beautiful, really. He wants them to press into his skin, neck, leave indents in his skin like a semi-permanent impression. He would get tattoos of his hands wrapped around him (where they **belong** ) if he could, if the frail skin of his neck wouldn't give way and leave a bloody mess. When he dies, this time, he wants it to be in saiharas arms, not on the cool metal of a unforgiving press (he could still hear in his ringing, ringing ears its decent, deafening in the otherwise stone quiet hanger) he wants saihara to hold him as the life (as if he had any) bleed out of his eyes. (be the one with a knife covered in his blood still clutched in his hands. To have him be the one to end it, this pathetic life of his.)

(It's too good of a death for someone like him.)

(But oh, how he _wants it_. Selfishly, greedy hands trying to grasp onto everything saihara had to give.)

(He should die. He should die another cold and uncaring death, excruciating. He hopes he does. Not out of some sick sense of pleasure, but because he knows he deserves to suffer.)

(He deserves to suffer.)

His paper thin smile doesn't fool him, saihara, not anymore. It used to, back when the fear of their own friends killing each other ran rampant in all of their hearts. But now, now everyone is out, out. Made of paper. Thin, stretched out, worn with time. Maybe it was less that saihara could tell he's lying, and more that he's forgetting how to, (how _pathetic_ ; the one stable part of his identity, being a liar, even that's going down the drain) too tired to even do that. The weariness in his bones never seems to leave.

“I can tell something is wrong, Kokichi.”

Kokichis smile falls as fast as it came, leaving blank bitterness in its place, pulled down by tiredness.

(Stop pushing.)

“Maybe I just want you to _fuck off_ , saihara-chan!”

He regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth, a smile pulling on his face as -chan leaves his lips. Saihara looks taken aback, hurt weaving into his face ( _I'm sorry_ ) but as soon as it comes transforming into bitterness. Exhaustion, tired of Kokichi and his antics. His lies.

(Of Kokichi himself, maybe.)

For a second, saihara looks like he wants to punch him.

_(Good. He should.)_

_(He should punch the living fucking daylights out of him until he can't walk anymore, until he can't breath anymore, until he's not even alive anymore, come on, saihara, **please-)**_

He doesn't. He only sighs in disappointment.

“Why are you like this, Kokichi? I'm trying, I really am, but…”

It stings more than a thousand needles in his eyes.

Saihara sighs again, before getting up.

_(Fear. Fear. There's fear in kokichis ripcage, oppressive and heavy and he cannot **breathe** -)_

“Where are you going, saihara-chan?” He purrs it, a facade of childish innocence that was never there, that he never got to experience, spread across his face.

“Didn't you _just_ tell me to fuck off?”

His lips curl, annoyance. Kokichi doesn't have it in him to respond.

“I just… need some time, Kokichi.”

Saihara turns his back, and walks away. _Away_. Kokichi watches his back, watches him go, the sound of the door ringing in his ears, his tee shirt still hanging off of his shoulder.

(This isn't what _close_ feels like.)

He doesn't move for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the worst thing I've ever written and I am truly sorry but sometimes you just gotta project your gross ass onto one of your fave characters


End file.
